


Underworld

by Aesops_Corpse



Category: Sci-Fi - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Punk, Explicit sexuality, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23248468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aesops_Corpse/pseuds/Aesops_Corpse
Summary: This scifi punk story, derivative of Blade Runner, was written as Halloween cliffhanger for my ESL students in China.





	Underworld

Soho in 76 was a festival of color, rich comic-book color that jumped off the page, a vivid neon marketplace of cybernetic organisms, flesh carnivals, synthetics (drugs, emplants, whores—and not just the techs but warm-blooded ones too), acupuncture and yoga gurus, pawn shops, spicy noodle shops and chop shops, fruit and meat vendors, savory and sweet-smelling hot pots, dumplings, tea eggs, and steamed bread. The atmosphere was pungent, arousing. Lin Kong sipped the last of his wanton soup, at a counter under a veranda on fifth and Jin Mao Lu, one of the many gutter-shops and restaurants in the tangled historic ‘subway’ of Soho. This one was sheltered by one of the ironworks of the stratosphere, and he sat at the end of the counter by a riveted girder of steel that ascended into the superstructure above. The stratosphere was the common name for that part of the city that was built on top of the old one, penetrating and gutting the sky with trains, glass and trees—that clashed with the more organic, discordant mongrel of tumbling brick and brownstone, greasy people, black-markets and carnival-fair existing in the shadows. The old cities, Soho, were left in the dark, eclipsed, and virtually buried under the gargantuan tower blocks of the new world in the sky. The old cities under the new ones became known as the ‘underground’ or the ‘subway’. In some dangerous parts of the world, the basement of these megalith cities is often called ‘Hades’. Lin Kong likes to think of Soho as the toe-jam in the feet of Atlas. Even though each tower, each mega-multiplex, was a city in itself with shopping centers, museums, exhibitions, laboratories, cinemas, gene therapy clinics, reality cafés, gardens, business parks, food courts, legislative halls, courts, fashion arenas, sporting stadiums, gymnasiums, physical-training centers, detention centers, water-distilling plants and reservoirs—lakes, bio-engineering plants, crematoriums, cryogenic storage malls, studios, rejuvenation clinics, massage parlors, universities, recycling plants, historical archives, image studios, reception halls, travel portals and train stations, casinos, swimming pools, fountains, saunas, abseiling walls, grappling studios, brokerage firms, real-estate offices, aquariums, aqua-farms, forests, agricultural labs, and plantations, Lin Kong prefers the gritty organic bustle of the underworld to the therapeutic splendor of the stratosphere. He is the curator of a currency museum in the upper levels of a megaplex tower called Valhalla, named after the Nordic realm of the Gods—a paradise. But he lives in a loft apartment in Soho, an old brick building groaning under the weight of the new world, wearing it like a hat. It is a dingy, sepulchral place, a vault. It’s not much, but its home, and its modest. 

He could live in the stratosphere, they offered him a place in Valhalla, but he likes the dusty authenticity of his flat—it’s close to the earth. Somewhere along the way, Humans lost touch with the natural earth, and unsatisfied with it, built a new, synthetic earth on top of it, and one on top of that. 

He ate here often, at this market-street wok, surrounded by the snap and sizzle of numerous dialects; yesterday he had dumpling-noodle soup with onion and garlic, and sometimes he had fish glazed in oyster sauce. Qui-Gon Jin was the owner and chef, an old man with a goatee. His daughter and granddaughter bustled about taking orders and assisting Qui-Gon Jin. There was an outdated scanner on the counter so that any patron could just swipe his hand over the scanner and a laser would read the ISB number and bar code under one’s skin (if you were old enough to have one), but down here old-fashioned currency was just as good, more common, and even preferred. You might say coin had more currency. An inconvenience if you lived in the clouds: in the sky, a cell-scan registered every one’s genetic code: necessary to ride lifts, enter spaces, visit certain decks, ride the centipede, and make purchases. But he liked the feel of the coin in his hands, the cold nickel. Lin Kong finished his soup, and tossed a ten piece on the counter as he stood up to go.

“Why are you carrying that thing,” Jin referred to the iron bar Lin Kong had with him, resting on the counter. 

Lin Kong clicked his Zippo and a lit a spliff. “I got a package yesterday.”

“It must be a big package.”

Lin Kong chuckled. “It is.”

“You need my daughter give you a hand,” Jin leered at him, and winked. 

Lin Kong, smiled dryly, and laid his hand gently on the shriveled hand of Qui-Gon Jin. “I’ll see you tomorrow, shushu, my old friend.”

Lin Kong traipsed past a peddler in the street trying to plug rip-offs. “Ni Hao, want buy some watches, Sim-card, MP9, shoes, bags.” Lin Kong brushed past him. “Synthetics, tech” the man persisted. And moments later, another peddler muttered in his ear as he walked by, “massage, sex—ten minutes…you girlfriend not need to know.” Lin Kong pushed through the glutted street. 

It started to drizzle: yellow-acid rain. Huge ironwork girders sprawled over the street: inside the steel frame a light sizzled and pulsed and an energy field manifested there, forming a luminous awning to protect the denizens of Soho from the precipitation. The toxic rain sizzled on the force field and the steam mixed with the vapors of vehicle exhaust, tang bao and xiaolongbao vendors. Rain drizzled at the edges like a curtain of beads. Adverts flashed on the screen. Many of them were political in nature, or raising awareness about ethics, and social plights. He wasn’t listening. A naked woman, with a greasy ginger crotch called from an unmarked shop with a pink light. “ba-erh, you want sex, I’m not synthetic—I’m flesh baby, the real thing.” She had a long yellow tattoo of a bird-of-paradise embracing her left tit and a red swallow on her lower abdomen. It was impossible to tell who was a synthetic and who was real, except when you touched them. Synthetics were usually cold, and never ate. In the stratosphere gilded above, synthetics had to be clearly labeled, but down here, the law didn’t always apply. He ignored her advances and meandered through the heaving streets by a flesh emporium, past more hawkers and pawn shops, through hanging avenues of bird-cages crawling with exotic lizards, mice, hybrids, and twittering parakeets, swallows, pigeons, canaries, turkey, and geese, most of them synthetic. A man with a synthetic, forked-tongue and white serpent eyes hissed at him, “my parakeets are real man, GM-hybrid man—flesh and blood.” The man’s eyebrow was pierced with a chain of rings. No thanks man, Lin Kong muttered. The tenant building where he lived was next to a synthetic brothel, and across the street was an emplant bazaar. He had no use for implants, let alone enhanced implants. 

A redheaded girl was leaning up against the building, smoking. It was Jezebel. The pink light behind her settled on the pavement, on the red brick, and on her white skin like a satin bed of roses. She had heavy black eyeliner on and a blue-black garter-belt holding up her stockings. Her panties were red silk. He winked at her. “Hay shushu,” she said dolefully. Jezabel was a synthetic. She was a nice girl, or seemed like one anyway. Sometimes he thought she was real. Was she programmed to have human emotion, to feel sorrow, or platonic affection? At any rate, he couldn’t help thinking of her as his younger sister, and hated to see her working in a brothel, the den of iniquity outside his door, though he would miss her if she was gone, and when he thought about it she was designed to be a prostitute. Besides, if she was conceived with a purpose and she is fulfilling that purpose, she must be happy. How many humans really ever know who they are, and what their purpose is? If they did, and they were fulfilling that purpose, than surely they would be happy. There was a green door beside her that was the entrance to his building. He went inside thinking about the note on the mysterious crate in his apartment. It was written in bold black ink on a piece of yellow post-it paper inside a white envelope. 

‘Who are you?’ 

‘Where does the world come from?’ 

‘What is a good life?’

Lin Kong pried open the cage that secured the elevator and stepped on the lift. He pushed the button for the seventh floor, the loft, and somewhere inside the pneumatic cylinders hissed, and then the elevator shook, shimmying up the shaft, rattling. The huge wooden crate had come addressed to him yesterday evening. He had never seen anything like it before—an old wooden crate, like something out of the ninetieth or twentieth century. It had stamped postmarks from all over the world. But there was no point of origin on it, or a return address. He wondered if it had something to do with the museum, if it contained some artifacts. After inspecting the box for some time, feeling it all over, unable to get inside, a sliver of wood punctured his finger. Then he realized the crate was nailed together, and so decided to go out after work and find something to wedge in between the slats and pry it open. He found a crow bar in a flea market. The crate sat in his loft all night while he slept, and all day at work, and now he was going to find out what was inside this mysterious traveler. The lift shook and rattled as it reached his floor, and he forced the cage open.

It was good to be home. The peephole scanned his retina and the doors of dark synthetic walnut opened to let him in. The moment he stepped in the house, mood lights placed around the perimeter of the flat enhanced, illuminating the loft just enough to see comfortably and maintain a mellow atmosphere. The BBC World Service switched on, a documentary of exploration into the ice moon of Jupiter—Europa, and the alien archives that were found there. The golden light of the Centipede filled the drafty apartment like the light of a beautiful sunset for a lingering moment, and disappeared. It cast its halo over the crate. The train swooped by his window every twenty minutes, commuters descending from the stratosphere and cross-town. He could see them as they passed in their individual pods, in their golden eggs, oblivious to the outside world, cocooned in their own customized travel experience: listening to high-resolution whale songs, nature sounds, symphonies, operas, techno-base; reading; hooked into reality; sleeping; masturbating; chatting; and even making love. Some days, he sat in the window for hours, smoking cigarettes, sipping cheap brandy, just watching other people’s lives as they passed in a womb.  
Now, he was determined to open the crate in his living room. He wasted no time, jamming the crowbar into the seams at the corners, prying it open, and peeling the lid off. He shoved it onto the floor and peered inside. He stared at a huge trunk inside with curious eyes. It was big, big enough for a man to climb into it. And it was old, very old. It had a dome-top that seemed to be embroidered with some kind of decorative fabric. The fabric was a blush-wine color with Hindu-like images. The edges were crafted from real wood, intricately carved. He quickly pried the other sides of the crate apart and let them fall to the floor. Now the chest stood clearly in front of him. The sides were plated with copper, and shaped and molded to depict some kind of ancient tale, but Time had made it unknowable. A strange bronze lock fastened the lid shut to the body. The lock was heavy and cold to the touch. It looked like a lock he saw in an antique shop once. It had a little keyhole in the center. But he hadn’t seen a key in thirty years, except the ones at the museum. He shook it and pulled on it but it was not to be undone. He pulled up a tall straight chair and sat down to contemplate it for a while. What did it mean? Who sent it to him and why? What did they mean by asking him these ancient of all philosophical questions? He thought about breaking the lock off with the crow bar, and then changed his mind. Suddenly there was a knock at the door, startling him. Who could it be? His first thought was Jezebel, but why would she come up here? Then the Centipede startled him; it swooped by his window, humming, rattling the building and the glass, filling the loft with golden light for several moments and then disappeared. Lin Kong moved slowly toward the door. Whoever it was, they were waiting quietly. He peered through his peephole, but could see nothing. He pulled the door open and leaned out. There was nobody there. He glanced around the hall, and at the cage of the elevator, but there was no sign of anyone. Then he noticed the most peculiar thing at his feet. He was looking at an old green skeleton key. He picked it up. It was cold. It was jade. That’s odd, he thought, and peered around the empty foyer again. He closed the door and returned to the seclusion of his flat. He needed a key, and now one appears. Who sent him this trunk? He sorted through his mind, thinking about all the people he knew. He put the key in the lock, and turned it. It clicked and popped open. His fingers were trembling when he removed it, and his face flushed with burning anticipation as he lifted the embroidered lid and peered inside—and stared in terrific disbelief.  
Lin Kong found himself gazing into a deep well of stone that vanished into a darkening void. A narrow, crumbling staircase, carved out of the stone spiraled into the bottomless pit…


End file.
